


Serpents don't make good pets, Harry

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Probably some mildly disturbing unhealthy stuff but nothing hardcore, Reupload of a fic I posted back in April I think, Squib Harry Potter, the dursleys aren't devoid of faults but they're not as bad as in canon, wip not abandoned but unlikely to be updated soon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 12:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Harry is a squib. Harry lives with the Dursleys with no knowledge of magic whatsoever. That is, until the Deatheaters abduct him to serve as a bargaining chip in the war and he learns about all the things he would have grown up with if his father had kept him around instead of leaving him with his aunt and uncle.





	Serpents don't make good pets, Harry

'We're out of milk.'

Harry stared blankly at the wad of notes that had just been shoved into his hands, and then looked up at his Aunt Petunia.

'Well? Go buy some,' Aunt Petunia then added in an annoyed voice. She looked almost pained at having to say the words out loud.

There was easily fifty pounds there, too much for buying only milk, Harry thought, frowning. And for a short moment, he was quite confused. Was his aunt suddenly victim of old age? Senile at barely forty? Maybe he should call an ambulance for her, just in case, he couldn't in all good faith leave her alone at home while her mind was obviously not quite ri—

And then it hit him. Ah, yes,of course. He had almost forgotten, today was his birthday.

His seventeenth birthday at the Dursleys' to be more precise and, unless Aunt Petunia really was losing her mind, this was her giving him his birthday present in a roundabout way.

'Thank you, Aunt Petunia,' Harry said with a smile and she patted his shoulder awkwardly, because they weren't used to displays of affection, despite being family by blood. Harry's mother had been Petunia's sister, and upon her death in a car accident he had been adopted by the Dursleys.

As for his father, well, his aunt and uncle always said he wasn't around anymore. That, and that he was a 'drunk who was responsible for Lily's death and who wouldn't have been fit to raise a child anyway', Aunt Petunia would bitterly add, if he asked. The only time Harry had pressed the issue, it had ended with his aunt's tears and his uncle's stern warning to never ask about it again, or else.

'Off you go then,' Aunt Petunia said with a tight-lipped smile and for good measure, she added 'and don't come home late.'

'I won't, Aunt Petunia.'

This birthday was off to a good start, Harry thought with an uncharacteristic optimism.

There was a nice breeze outside, making the stifling heat almost bearable when Harry headed to the nearest supermarket.

His hands shoved in his pockets, Harry was wondering what he should do with the money. He didn't get presents often, and usually, they were jokes or small, cheap things that had only been given to him as an afterthought, so part of Harry wanted to buy himself something really nice and consider it his birthday present. Another part said he should save it for later. He would move out soon and he would needed to keep some extra money just in case he'd need it, for food or other things.

Suddenly, he heard a peculiar noise, like the crack of a whip. He turned around where the sound came from and was met with a tall figure wearing dark, hooded robes and a silver mask.

Harry blinked, pausing for a second, he looked the masked person up and down. He felt like he had to say something lest he looked impolite.

'Nice costume you have there,' Harry complimented offhandedly before turning back and continuing to walk towards the supermarket.

Was there some kind of costumed party nearby? He was never invited to those, but he figured some other neighbours might be.

'Harry James Potter?' A deep, somewhat muffled voice came from behind him, making Harry stop in his tracks.

And for the second time today, he turned to face him, frowning.

'That's me, yes. Where did you—' He was cut short as a hand abruptly gripped his arm and he was suddenly feeling as though his body was trying to go through a small pipe, which wasn't physically possible to go through, for a few long, unpleasant seconds.

And when the uncomfortable sensation finally stopped, he wasn't in Privet Drive anymore.

* * *

 

What the hell just happened?

Feeling nauseous, Harry had the presence of mind of turning away from whoever it was that had grabbed him before he emptied his stomach on the ground — the floor, actually. A cold stone floor that was hard under Harry's hands and knees, a floor that was quite dirty now that Harry had puked on it.

'So this is Harry Potter,' hissed a voice from afar, and if Harry wasn't so busy being sick, he would have been offended at the slightly mocking tone.

Harry raised his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

There was a throne in that big, almost empty and cold room. And on that throne, there was a man who Harry had never seen before, who was solidly built, but whose face had something that could only be called 'aristocratic charm'. He was definitely one of the most good-looking people Harry had ever seen, and if not for the situation, he would have had no problem admitting it to himself. But as it was, he was more concerned about the recent strange happenings and his own safety to drool over this stranger.

'It appears so, my Lord. He fits the description perfectly,' said the man who had just abducted Harry.

Harry's eyes quickly flicked from the masked one to the man on the throne.

'Wait a second: who are you people? Why am I here? Where is"here"?'

He was utterly ignored, the man on the throne spoke as if he hadn't heard anything.

'Now, let's see what his family will say to our message regarding the boy's new...living arrangements, shall we say?'

Both men laughed, as if they were sharing a joke.

Did they kidnap him for a ransom? If they had, they were stupider than they looked: there was no way the Dursleys would pay to get Harry back. Maybe they had never been entirely awful with him, but they didn't care enough to spend more than a few pounds to save him.

It could be his way out, Harry thought fast.

'They won't pay a ransom you know,' he said, much louder than last time to make sure they heard him. Harry felt he had to say it, maybe they could be reasoned with, maybe they'd let him go if they realized it was useless to abduct him.

There was a small silence.

'What was that, Potter?'

Harry repeated himself, feeling a little annoyed. 'I said: they won't pay the ransom. This is a kidnapping right? The Dursleys won't care, you won't get a single pound from them. You'd have better chance abducting Dudley.'

There was another silence.

'Pounds?' A cold, hissing laugh. 'We don't care about money.'

Harry was growing more and more horrified. Not money? What would they be interested in, then? Thinking about some reasons why someone would kidnap a barely adult teenager, Harry suddenly took a step back, paling considerably.

'I have no interest in that, Potter.' Was it his imagination or did the man almost sound offended? 'Your father and brother have been a thorn in my side for a while now, you'll be an incentive for them to think twice before they cross me.'

'You... You must have me mistaken with someone else. I don't have a brother or a father, if I had, I'd know it, right?" His voice shook.

A family outside of the Dursleys? The drunk dead father they'd talked about? And an imaginary brother? It had to be a lie.

These people were crazy, or Harry was having a bad dream, it didn't make sense.

'He doesn't know.' The masked man standing besides Harry spoke quietly, as if he didn't quite believe what he was saying.

'What do you mean "he doesn't know"? My parents died when I was a kid, I don't have any brother or sister. You've made a mistake, you must have made a mistake, I'm not the one you're looking for. There's no point in keeping me here, please just let me go home.'

Harry was still on his knees, and he felt like he was begging for his life. In hindsight, maybe he was.

The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in and he didn't like it one bit.

The man on the throne stood up and walked down to Harry.

'You poor little thing,' he said, caressing Harry's cheek with one long, pale finger. The gesture made Harry's stomach lurch again, and the smell of vomit in the air certainly didn't help. 'You've been kept in the dark for so long, do you wish to know the truth?'

The thought that this man looked like he enjoyed the sound of his voice way too much briefly crossed Harry's terrified mind.

'Please.' Harry's voice was a whisper.

There were tears threatening to spill all over his cheeks.

Please leave me alone.

Please don't hurt me.

Please let me go home.

Please explain everything.

Harry closed his eyes.

Please let this be a bad dream.

The man chuckled darkly.

His cold voice felt out of place, inappropriate as he started telling his tale in a way not unlike one would read a bedtime story for a child.

'Once upon a time, there were a man and a woman who loved each other very much...'

His parents, Harry thought as the story unfolded. His parents who could do magic, the same kind of magic that made Aunt Petunia shiver and shriek in terror, but magic was a wonderful thing. And they'd had two wonderful children. Two sons, twins, one who had been gifted with magic while the other hadn't. It hadn't mattered to them, they loved their children anyway. But then mommy died and daddy wanted to be a good father, so he let go. He let go of the runt, left him with his dead wife's sister and never went to see him again.

'So he doesn't even care about me,' Harry murmured. 'What's the point then? He never visited, why would you taking me hostage hurt him in any way?'

He thought he would be more... he thought there would be more energy in his voice, hope, sadness, despair, joy,anything.

But he only felt tired, so tired.

'The right question is: what would the Potters look like if they let their squib of a son die in the hands of the great Lord Voldemort?'

For a few seconds, Harry stayed silent.

From the floor where he was kneeling, he looked up at the man who called himself Lord Voldemort and who so casually talked about killing him, and there was no doubt in his mind that this person was serious.

Harry swallowed thickly.

'What... What do you want me to do?'

If he cooperated, Harry thought, he might be spared, or at least survive long enough to escape once he found a way to.

Lord Voldemort smirked slightly. Making some gesture with his hand, he said, 'Yaxley, you are dismissed.'

Said Yaxley bowed and disappeared in a sound like the crack of a whip, the exact same sound Harry had heard back in Privet Drive.

Harry rubbed his eyes and looked again: he really was gone. Poof. Vanished out of existence.

That might take some time to get used to.

Once they were both alone in the throne room, Lord Voldemort waved his white wood stick and the vomit on the floor disappeared along with the awful stench that had come from it.

'At the moment, you needn't do anything. You will stay in the manor until you are needed for the second part of the plan.'

As Voldemort spoke, he ran his fingers through Harry's hair like one would a pet, and Harry felt quite horrified with himself when he realized his first thought was to wonder if he should consider being treated as a dog as a good sign. His second thought was that his last hair-washing day had been a few days before and that while not completely greasy and dirty, his hair probably wasn't soft and silky to the touch. Well, it had never been soft and silky but it could have been cleaner, at least. Then the third thought was a secondly horrified 'wait, would I have washed my hair today if I had known he would touch it?', the answer to which was, obviously, no.

As if unaware of Harry's internal turmoil, Voldemort continued, 'Now, I am not a monster and you are a guest in my house,' and with that, he let out a small laugh and Harry knew without a doubt that he was lying through his teeth. He wondered if the man was aware of the utter terror that shot through Harry's body at the words, wondered if the man liked it. 'You will be treated fairly and with great care, and in return, I trust you won't disrespect my hospitality.'

Harry nodded slightly, although he wasn't exactly sure what it was that this Lord Voldemort meant with this phrase, this order 'not to disrespect his hospitality'.

He got the gist of it, though: keep your head down, don't stir trouble, be polite, try not to offend him. It should be easy enough, not much different from the Dursleys, except that with the Dursleys, Harry knew where he stood. Here, it looked like one false move and he'd join his mother in the afterlife.

'I understand, sir,' said Harry, mustering as much of his polite fiber as he could without sounding so servile it could be considered an offense.

The hand in his hair stopped, and a cold voice corrected him.

'Don't call me "sir".'

First mistake, Harry thought, berating himself. What would he want to be called? What had the masked man called him again? Harry couldn't remember, why couldn't he remember?

'I understand, Lord Voldemort?' Harry corrected himself, hoping to get it right this time.

Voldemort chuckled and Harry tensed. Maybe the third try...

'You may call me "Lord Voldemort" or "my Lord",' Voldemort said and resumed his petting, still laughing quietly for a reason unknown to Harry. It wasn't a warm laugh, per se, but it didn't sound like he was making fun of Harry, it sounded more like Harry was unknowingly mentioning a private joke and that Voldemort found the situation amusing.

Harry decided to ignore it.

'Do you have any questions?'

Harry was about to say no when something crossed his mind in a strange, distant way.

'My, uh... My aunt, Petunia Dursley, she asked me to buy milk.' It was too late to go back now. 'Would it... Could you please... Would it be possible for someone to send her some, please? If it's not asking too mu—'

Harry cut himself off, this time, not because he didn't know what to say or because he wasn't sure how to speak, no.

This time, it was because a huge, black-scaled snake was slithering into the room with a long hiss. He braced himself, digging his fingernails into his palms.

'Are you not fond of snakes?'

What was that, a joke?

Harry decided to keep staring at the floor when he replied, 'not very much, Lord Voldemort.'

'Pity.' There was disappointment in Voldemort's hissing voice as he stopped his hand in Harry's hair to instead pet the reptile. Harry only wanted to get away from the snake as soon as he could, so much in fact that he almost didn't hear the next words, 'As for your Aunt, something may be arranged.'

Then Lord Voldemort snapped his fingers and a small, ugly thing with a humanoid shape and big, brilliant blue eyes appeared and said in a squeaky voice, 'Master called?'

'Bring Harry Potter to the guest room.'

Harry stood up to follow the... creature but as he was getting up, the room he was in had suddenly changed.

He almost lost his balance before he stabilized himself and then turned around quickly, which confirmed it: he wasn't in the throne room with Voldemort anymore, but inside what looked like the guest room that had been mentioned a few times before.

It was much bigger than his bedroom back at the Dursleys, with furniture made of rich, dark wood, and a grey metal that looked like silver, and noble fabrics that were soft and fluid under his fingers covered the bed. It looked too good to be true. Harry turned around to ask the... creature, who had brought him here if it really was okay for him to stay there, but it had already disappeared.

Alone in the room, but feeling some sort of misplaced concern for the expensive-looking bed, Harry didn't dare touch it. Instead, he sat down on the floor and unloaded his pockets on the warm, comfortable carpet. Aside from the money his Aunt had given him, there wasn't exactly anything interesting or that could be useful: an almost empty pack of tissues, an old tissue, and a small, well used pencil.

It looked like he had nothing of use.

Once he was done wallowing in his lack of luck, Harry started searching the room. Quickly, he opened the cupboard, the dresser as well, and the several drawers too, finding clothes, trinkets, fabrics and books he make a mental note to check later. They looked like they were about magic, but Harry had another thing to do before he started reading occupying himself.

There were windows on one side of the room and a door on the other.

Firstly, Harry went to peer through the glass of the window. It was still the afternoon, a nice, golden light was bathing the place from above the hills or mountains in the distance. There were trees, evergreens, plains and he thought something that looked like a sort of lake or river that was mostly hidden by the forest, but it was nothing he recognized although he could guess they were in Europe, or somewhere that looked like it could be in Europe, anyway. He doubted they were still in Surrey, or even in England, although he hoped he wasn't too far away.

Then, Harry headed towards the only door and opened it slightly.

He wasn't planning on running — not yet anyway — he only wanted to check the surroundings, see what was behind the door.

There was a corridor, with a portrait hung on the wall opposite, that was looking down on him in a creepy way, but not as creepy as when Harry heard it talk.

'Hello young man, are you the guest?'

Harry stood there, mouth agape, for a few long seconds.

Did it just...?

Then he blurted out, 'Sorry for the bother, I'll leave now!' and promptly closed the door.

Alone in the room again, Harry took some time to think.

What the...? A talking portrait?

No.

No, it must have been his imagination.

Or maybe someone had talked to him and through a trick of light he had thought the portrait had moved. He must have sounded quite rude, now that he thought about it. Maybe he should go back and give a small apology and clear up the mistake. He had just been told by the one who he thought was the master of the house 'not to disrespect his hospitality' and the first thing he did once he was by himself was ignoring another resident who had been nothing but polite to him.

Although Harry didn't know it, in another life, he would have been sorted into Gryffindor. It shouldn't come as a surprise then when, mustering up his courage, he opened the door again and looked at the portrait, which was rather still, this time.

'I really imagined it talk, didn't I?' Harry murmured to himself, craning his neck to look to the left and to the right, hoping to see the hypothetical person who he had ignored.

The corridor was empty, there was nothing there except Harry and a few pieces of furniture.

'You think you imagined me talk? What are you, a muggle?'

Harry smothered the urge to scramble back inside the room and close the door again, and said, carefully, 'are you the portrait?'

'Of course I am!' The portrait was now gesticulating inside the painting, looking... offended? 'Are you a muggle? I swear to Merlin, if that man brought a filthy, pathetic muggle into my home—'

Muggles... they were people without magic, weren't they? Harry had never thought he would ever be insulted by a painting but it seemed this seventeenth birthday of his was only getting weirder.

'Well I apologize for offending your eyes, sir,' Harry said between clenched teeth.

He made to leave, but before he could retreat into his room with his dignity intact, he froze, eyes wide open.

The big, black snake was there.

It was there and it was so close, only a few meters away from him, its red eyes glinting in the darkness in a threatening way.

'Master said I couldn't eat him unless he tried to escape but I'm sure taking a bite or two wouldn't hurt,' the snake hissed, slithering closer, slowly, its scales catching the candlelight from the wall.

Harry took a step back, his hand closing on the doorknob, slippery with sweat.

Oh no, not again.

Harry retreated back into his room quickly, shutting the door harder than he had meant to.

The loud snap echoed in the corridor.

With none of that earlier somewhat out-of-place consideration for the bed, he grabbed the first book that fell under his hand and threw himself on the mattress. His body sank in it for a short moment, during which Harry wondered if he would just disappear, swallowed by it, but then it stopped. Harry moved to find a comfortable reading position and opened the book, forcing his eyes to focus on the page and his mind to focus on the words.

He let go of the book when it became obvious the author had a fondness for reptiles, and he reached for another book, one on magical theory it seemed that, while more complicated, helped him forget what he didn't want to think about.

If Harry barely understood half of what the author was talking about, for many different reasons, and his intestines were twisting uncomfortably in his belly, he was at least glad for the distraction.

The evening came quickly enough, and with it, the declining light made it harder to distinguish each word. Finding no source of light to substitute to the sun rays, Harry eventually had to stop reading. Well, to be perfectly honest, there was a contraption that looked like a small lamp, but he couldn't find any switch to turn it on and, figuring it was magic and he couldn't do anything about it, he eventually gave up trying to get it to work.

There was nothing interesting to do in the darkness of the room really, and he was not eager to try his luck with the dimly lit corridor again anytime soon, so he let himself lie down on top of the much-too-comfortable bed, appreciating to soft silky fabric under his back as he sighed and closed his eyes.

For a few minutes, he was lying there, feeling the warm air on his skin and the covers in his hands, soft against his fingers, and he felt the fatigue that was beginning to numb his mind. Before the exhausting day finally took its toll and he fell asleep, Harry had a small thought for the Dursleys.

Harry wondered if Voldemort had indeed arranged something for Aunt Petunia to receive the milk.

Harry wondered if she thought he had run away without so much as a warning.

Harry wondered if any of them was worried about him.

Part of him — most of him really — hoped they were.

He hoped they missed him.

If they didn't, who else would?

(Harry smothered the voice that whispered that surely they were just glad he was gone, and the smaller, more insidious voice that said that he wasn't all that sad to spend some time away from them.)

* * *

Petunia Dursley was, in fact, beginning to get really worried about Harry's disappearance.

It had been a few hours now since she had sent her nephew out to buy milk. Even though she knew that he knew that she had left some extra money for his own use, as a birthday gift, it was still strange that it would take him so long to go to the supermarket and come back.

Petunia couldn't help the nagging fear deep inside her stomach, even as she tried to take her mind off of it, it never went away. Since Lily had passed, she had been taking care of Harry, and if she had never spoiled the kid like she did her own son, she still cared deeply about him and the mere thought of him disappearing without a trace was enough to make her feel nauseous.

When Dudley came home that evening after visiting his friend at the Polkiss and there was still no sign of Harry, Petunia latched on him like a hawk, questioning him about his cousin's whereabouts.

'Haven't seen him all day,' Dudley said, shrugging.

Petunia gave a small sigh but didn't say anything else, and Dudley looked like he wanted nothing more than to leave and watch the television but still felt somewhat worried about his mother's state of mind, so eventually he asked, furrowing his eyebrows, 'did something happen to him?'

'I hope not,' Petunia said somberly, before putting on a more cheerful expression and ushering her son away.

There was no need to be concerned about her nephew's safety, maybe Harry had just not been paying attention to the time. That child, honestly, she would need to give him a scolding for worrying her sick.

Someone knocked on the door

A wave of relief washed over Petunia as she breathed in, feeling much lighter now. It must be Harry. The boy must have forgotten his keys — how clumsy of him, they would have to change all the locks now — and this was the reason why he was so late. Silly her, there had been no reason to worry, Petunia thought as she quickly went to open the door.

But Harry wasn't there.

In fact, there was no one waiting for her and at first she thought it was a prank by one of the ill-mannered neighbor's children, but as her eyes slowly looked down, the fool stench of decay hit her nose just as her brain registered the awful sight.

Both her hands covered her mouth to stifle a shriek as she fell to her knees.

There, right in front of her doorstep was a carton of milk covered in viscera, coated in a viscous dark red liquid that looked like blood, and on top of it was a small note with a handwritten message.

We have him.

No.

Not Harry, not her nephew, not Lily's son. He couldn't be...

Shaking all over, Petunia Dursley managed to scramble back inside her home, reached the phone and composed the emergency number with a trembling hand.

Obviously,they didn't use normal technology like normal people, but they did have a middle man, or woman, that could use a phone and a feminine voice received her panicked call. After a few minutes of explaining that her nephew had disappeared and describing the note she had received with the milk, the milk which she had asked Harry to buy, the voice said calmly that people would be sent to deal with the situation.

'You said Harry wasn't involved with you freaks,' Petunia shrieked, not caring if anyone in the house heard her, ' you said he would be safe, you said—'

'Ma'am, please calm down,' the voice at the phone interrupted her with a condescending tone.

'I will not. Bring this James Potter, that irresponsible waste of space to me this instant or—'

Suddenly, the were several loud cracking sounds and she was interrupted, and the person on the other side hung up on her. Putting the phone back, she shouted at her son's attention to stay inside and leave under no circumstances, while she hurried outside.

Three of them had appeared right in front of her house, wearing their strange robes and holding their wands in their hands.

Petunia Dursley searched their faces for Lily's former husband but couldn't find anything. They didn't seem to notice her at all, as they spoke between themselves.

'Looks like his work,' one said, feeling no need to specify who 'his' was referring to.

'Abducted the kid? What for, a ransom?'

'Unlikely.'

'How did he even know where he lived?'

'Traitor in our midst, no one knew except us.'

'Warn the rest of the Order, Dumbledore must know.'

'What about the muggles?'

There was a small silence during which all three of them glanced at her awkwardly.

'The usual procedure.'

And once they were done talking, one who had a kind face, if a little scarred, turned to Petunia who swallowed thickly.

'Will Harry—'be fine? Petunia was about to ask, but then the man raised his wand, she flinched as she recognized the kind of tool—or rather weapon— it was, and a bright greenish blue light blinded her briefly.

Petunia's mind became blank, emotionless, thoughtless.

'Your nephew is fine. He's under the Order's care with his father and his brother. There is no need to worry.'

The lies fell out of the man's mouth and into her ears, all the way through her brain, and suddenly her shoulders relaxed.

'There is no need to worry,' Petunia Dursley repeated dully.

Her mind was foggy after that. Even though she could hear, she didn't actually understand anything.

'Good.' There was a pause, something like regret as he whispered, 'I always hate having to do that.'

'It's for the best, Lupin. She'd have been traumatized otherwise. Voldemort is a sadist, she's lucky he didn't mail her the boy's body parts instead of just milk and... is that goat blood? What's up with that?'

'You—!'

'Sorry.' A short silence. 'But still, the less they know about You-Know-Who, the safer they will be.'

'I should have been the case for Harry too! He was supposed to be safe here, away from magic, and look what happened.'

'There must have been a mistake somewhere down the line, Dumbledore will know what to do.'

'We'll find a way to rescue Harry.'

'If worst comes to worst, we'll break him out, it wouldn't be the first time we infiltrate the manor.'

'Wouldn't it be a waste of ressources though? He's a squib.'

'Shut it!'

'I'm just saying, if we lose several men trying to save him, we won't have accomplished anything good.'

'He's Lily and James' son too, he deserves—'

'Some people are collateral damage, Lupin, we can't help it. The kid should have been shipped outside of Britain years ago instead of staying under her care anyway.' There was no small amount of disgust in her voice when she mentioned Petunia.

'Let's leave, and don't forget to vanish You-Know-Who's "gift".'

An instant later, Petunia blinked back into consciousness, alone on the doorstep of her house. Everything was silent, except for the occasional bird chirping and the muffled sound of the television upstairs. For the life of her, she couldn't remember what she had been wanting to do outside. Oh well, the flowers did need some watering, poor things were drying at an alarming rate.

It was so hot these days... Petunia wondered if her nephew was doing fine with his father and brother, and a part of her hoped he'd come back soon. For some reason, she felt like she couldn't be sure Harry was all right until she saw him with her own two eyes.

Must have been her imagination.

* * *

 

Completely unaware of what had happened back at the number 4, Privet Drive, Harry woke up lazily on the bed of the guest room "graciously" offered by Lord Voldemort on his birthday.

It took him a moment to remember the past day's events. Magic was real, he had a brother and a father who he had never met, and whoever Voldemort was, he had some kind of grudge against them and he was using Harry to get to them, although he had been nothing but polite with him the whole time. Or... well, he had never been downright cruel or mean to him, at least.

And there had been a snake. Harry shuddered at the memory. It wasn't that he hated snakes or that was scared of them in general, he just was not entirely comfortable around them especially when said snake was so big it could probably swallow him whole and have him be digested after a few weeks, and Harry didn't even want to think about what kind of venom was in its fangs. Well, there was all that, and the talking thing.

If Harry could avoid seeing it today, he'd be satisfied.

Harry made his bed to the best of his ability, which, considering he had slept on top of the covers instead of under them meant he only had to straighten them a bit, it didn't look perfect but it would have been good enough for his aunt.

Suddenly, there was a noise and the same creature as the one that had made them both teleport to the room the day before appeared right next to the door.

'Master asked Floppy to bring guest Harry Potter to eat breakfast once guest Harry Potter is presentable.'

Presentable?

Harry looked at himself in the mirror. He looked... decent enough. Even if he hadn't taken a shower since the day before, he didn't look dirty. He rearranged his hair so it covered the scar on his forehead, however his clothes were not salvageable, wrinkled as they were after he slept the whole night in them.

'Does the guest want Floppy to help with the clothes?'

Harry hesitated. 'If it's not too much trouble then, yes, please.'

The creature snapped its fingers and suddenly, Harry's clothes were no only completely ironed and smoothed, but he could feel the sweat from the night had also been cleaned from the fabric.

'That's nice,' Harry twirled around, looking at himself from as many angles as he could to confirm his clothes were as good as new. 'How did you do that?'

'Magic.'

Oh yeah, magic. How could he forget?

'Thank you for your help, er, Floppy.' What kind of name was Floppy, anyway? 'I think I'm ready?'

He wasn't looking forward to meeting Voldemort again but he didn't exactly have a choice. Until he could find a way out, he needed to stay on the man's good side.

Floppy snapped its fingers.

Suddenly, Harry found himself in what looked like a dinner room, where a huge, long table made of dark wood took most of the space and there was no one but the man from the day before, Voldemort, who was sitting on one end and made a gesture to invite Harry to sit next to him. Harry did, and a plate full of bacon and eggs appeared under his eyes.

As Harry was considering by which end of the tasty bacon he should start, he was vaguely aware of a movement in the corner of his eye.

'Did you sleep well?' Voldemort asked conversationally, and it was enough to put a stop to Harry's wonder at the magically appeared food.

'I... Yes?' He frowned. 'Why are you asking?'

Voldemort leaned back slightly, head high, a smirk on his face.

'There is no need to be so defensive, Harry — may I call you Harry? — You are a guest in my house and I am inquiring as to your well-being, isn't it normal?'

It would have been normal, Harry reasoned, frowning, if he wasn't technically a hostage.

'Tell me,' Voldemort started in a deceptively calm and almost friendly voice, 'would you rather I take you to the cells down in the dungeons? I can guarantee you it is better for you to be polite and appreciate my hospitality.'

'Yes sir,' Harry said quickly, feeling cold sweats running down his back. 'I—' He hesitated. 'I mean, yes, my Lord.'

'Better,' Voldemort's voice was a quiet, satisfied hiss. 'Now Harry, how did you find your room?'

Harry thought for a second. Between what he wanted to say and what he should say, he had little choice.

'It's nice, uh, and pretty big. I started reading one of the books that was there. Oh,' Harry remembered something. 'I had to stop yesterday because it was getting dark. There's no electricity here, as far as I've seen, how do you turn on the light when you don't have magic?' Harry asked and then he added belatedly, because he was supposed to be polite, 'If you don't mind answering, sir. Sorry, I mean: my Lord.' His heart was beating fast. Couldn't the breakfast be over already? He felt like he was making mistakes upon mistakes.

'I am delighted to learn that you like it,' Voldemort said, dragging on the word. Surprisingly enough, Harry wasn't reassured in the least at hearing it. 'As for the light, you may call the house elf and he will help you.'

'The house elf?' Harry asked, tilting his head. it was the first time he heard of something like that.

'Floppy.'

Immediately, the creature appeared, bowed obsequiously and said in a squeaky voice, 'Master called?'

'That's a house elf,' Voldemort said to Harry's attention. 'Call his name and he will help you, within reason,obviously.'

'Oh,' Floppy had already helped Harry earlier with his clothes, was he supposed to help all the time? It was nice, Harry thought. 'Thank you.'

Harry went back to his breakfast, cutting the bacon and the egg. The yolk ran out, spreading in the place, covering the sides of the slice of bacon in the viscous yellow liquid. It didn't taste bad at all, Harry thought as he took a bite. Now that he thought about it, he was feeling quite hungry.

After a long silence, Voldemort said without a warning, 'I hope Nagini didn't scare you yesterday, she does like to play.'

Harry jumped.

'Nagini?'

'My snake.'

'No — I mean — I'm fine. It... she wouldn't attack me, would she?'

'Of course not. Unless you try to escape, of course. She only obeys me.'

'O—Oh.'

Harry swallowed thickly. It reminded him of something else he wanted to speak about.

'May I ask you something? I mean, about magic,' he added quickly. Voldemort nodded slightly. 'Can portraits hurt people?'

Filthy, pathetic muggle, the portrait had said. It was one thing if he could only insult him, but if he could move outside the portrait and attack him, Harry had more to worry about.

'Not directly,' Voldemort said, and then seemed to be thinking for a few seconds. 'Is this about the one in front of your room?'

Harry nodded. 'He said he hates muggles.'

Filthy, pathetic muggle.

'So?'

'I am a muggle,' Harry said, frowning.

Voldemort corrected him.

'No, you're a squib.'

'That's the same... I don't...' Harry stopped babbling and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Obviously he was looking at it the wrong way. 'What's the difference exactly?'

'Muggles don't have a single drop of magic in their bodies, squibs are born from magical families. Tell him you're a squib next time you see him, he will be more amenable if you do so.'

Harry nodded, and started cutting his bacon.

Between the food, which was insanely good, and even better since he didn't have to cook or wash the dishes, and the conversation, which was very pleasant when Voldemort wasn't annoyed at him or when Harry ignored that he was a captive here, Harry found he was quite enjoying himself. Voldemort was nice enough and the conversation flowed easily, and Harry was surprised as he found himself with a looser tongue than he'd thought.

Before the end of the meal, he decided to ask Voldemort one last question.

'About my aunt, did you...?'

'It has been taken care of, she received a nice carton of milk yesterday evening.'

'Oh,' Harry said, a smile slowly lighting up his face. 'Then, thank you very much, Lord Voldemort.'

Voldemort watched as the boy's shoulders tensed again when Nagini slowly slithered into the room and up to them.

The big black snake settled down at his feet, resting her massive triangular head on his lap and hissing quietly, not looking threatening in the least. Voldemort carefully hid the smirk on his face at how transparent the young Potter was. He had used legilimency on him before, enough to read his surface thoughts, but he realized quickly that he didn't even need to do that much: the boy was an open book. He was obviously frightened by Nagini and didn't even try to hide it, just like many people — even wizards — who met her.

It was a little disappointing really, to tell the truth. For someone whose brother was the Boy-Who-Lived, the perfect little Gryffindor, brave and courageous and always ready to try and sacrifice himself, Harry Potter certainly looked like a coward. Although he had to admit, he thought the boy would be more terrified of him, but that was only because he hadn't been raised hearing about all the great and terrible things Lord Voldemort had done.

'You've finished eating already, haven't you? You may leave if she makes you uncomfortable,' Voldemort said, feeling rather magnanimous today.

'Thank you s— my Lord.' The boy didn't have to be told twice, he jumped on his feet and, in a hesitating voice, as if he didn't know if the creature would answer to him, he called, 'Floppy?'

But surely enough, Floppy appeared out of thin air and gave a deep bow before saying, as usual, 'Master called?'

Everyone pretended that they had not seen Harry flinch.

'He'd make a good snack, ' Nagini remarked in a quiet hiss. Harry looked even more uncomfortable now, if it was even possible.

Voldemort made a tut-tutting noise and hissed back softly in parseltongue, 'You can't eat him, Nagini. Not yet.'

As he spoke, Voldemort let his fingers run along the shining black scales on Nagini's back and a discreet glance towards Harry confirmed the boy looked positively pale and trembling. Parseltongue tended to have that effect on people, even those who weren't familiar with it and its roots in the Dark Arts.

To Voldemort's amusement, the boy avoided looking in his general direction when he stuttered out, looking nauseous, 'please — Floppy — my room?'

The next instant, Floppy snapped his fingers and Harry Potter was gone, just like Voldemort's friendly façade. Had he been a common man, he would have snorted in contempt: the boy didn't deserve a second glance. He'd get rid of him the moment he outlived his use, which shouldn't take too long now. Soon, he wouldn't even have to try and appear nice to him.

* * *

Upon landing in the guest room, Harry Potter doubled over and emptied his stomach on the expensive-looking rug.

It took him a few minutes before he was certain the nausea was receding, then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The smell made him scrunch up his nose and he got up to find a mop and a bucket to try and clean it to the best of his ability — if he spent the next few days in this room he'd rather it didn't smell like vomit — but then a thought struck his mind. Carefully, he turned around, making sure he was alone. Good, at least, if it didn't work, no one would witness it.

'Floppy?' As soon as the words left his mouth, the house elf appeared. This time, Harry didn't flinch. 'Could you... Could you please clean this? Or bring me something so I can clean it?' For good measure, he then added another 'please?'

Being polite was the most important thing, Harry thought, still feeling sick. The creature had been nice enough so far, but maybe it wouldn't be nice anymore if Harry was rude to him. Completely unaware of Harry's thoughts, Floppy snapped his fingers and the vomit coating the rug disappeared. Harry had to resist the temptation to go and touch it to make sure it was really all gone.

'Does guest Harry Potter need anything else?'

Harry thought for a second. 'Just some water, please.' His voice was hoarse and the taste in his mouth felt disgusting. There was another snap and one glass filled with water appeared on the bedside table. With a relieved sigh, Harry took a few sips, making sure to swirl it around in his mouth to freshen it up, before swallowing, drinking again, and when he was done, he said, 'thank you, Floppy. You, er, you can go now, if you want.'

Floppy vanished and Harry let out a shaky breath, he needed to lie down for a moment. Harry threw himself on the bed, burying his face in the pleasantly cold silky fabric, his heart still uncomfortably pounding hard in his chest. He tried to exhale slowly and steadily but he couldn't quite calm himself down.

Harry didn't know what he had expected, but to hear it from Voldemort himself, this 'Not yet' felt like a icy cold shower.

'Not yet' meant he'd let his snake eat him eventually.

Part of him had somehow thought he would be left alone when Voldemort was done with him. Just... what? Be a good, well-behaved hostage and as soon as Voldemort got what he wanted, he'd let him go back to the Dursleys? Or he'd take care of him forever? He had been naive. He had forgotten it was his life on the line. He needed to leave as soon as he could. If he was going to die eventually, he wouldn't die without a fight.

Maybe he could go and search for possible ways to leave, make it look like he was just exploring the manor, taking a stroll. And when he was out, he'd use the money Aunt Petunia had left him to take the bus to a civilized area, maybe he'd have change it into the local currency, but surely he had enough to get by for a few days, right? At least until he was in a safer place. Yes, it was a plan he could work with. He still had some time before Voldemort didn't have any use for him anymore, right? He would be fine.

He would be just fine.

* * *

Harry opened the door in his room to the corridor, and just like the day before, the portrait of the muggle-hating wizard looked down upon him, smirking.

'Well, well, well, if this isn't the filthy—'

'Pathetic muggle?' Harry cut him off, he had had enough. 'Actually, no, I'm not.'

'Oh, really?' The portrait rolled his eyes at Harry. 'If you're going to tell a lie, do try to make it a believable one at least.'

'Well, it's the truth, I'm a,' Harry paused, thinking for a second. What had Voldemort called it again? 'I'm a squib. Raised by muggles though, I didn't know anything about magic until yesterday.'

The person in the portrait shifted, and somehow seemed to look slightly friendlier as he said, 'You should have said so earlier, my boy! Squibs might be a shame on one's family tree, but you're still better than a muggle.' It made Harry wince. A shame? 'Now tell me, what old family line are you from?'

Old family line? Wasn't it just a roundabout way of asking his surname? Harry shrugged and said, 'I'm a Potter. My mother's last name was Evans, though.'

The portrait made a low sound of approval. 'Not a bad family, the Potters. And you do look like one. I've never heard of the Evans however. She wasn't a mudblood, was she? A half-blood at least?'

'What's a mudblood?' Harry frowned. Mud and blood? Muddy blood? It didn't sound like a compliment, far from it, and it certainly didn't sound like the kind of word he wanted to use to talk about his deceased mother, even though he had never actually met her.

'It means her parents were muggles,' the portrait said as if it was obvious, and the answer must have been on Harry's face because then he gave a sigh and said under his breath, almost too quietly for Harry to make out the words, 'Merlin's balls, there's another filthy half-blood in this house. At least he came from the noble Slytherin line, if he wasn't I'd—.'

Harry's attention perked up at the mention and he interrupted him, holding out his hand in a silencing gesture as he said quickly, 'Wait a second, who are you talking about? And who or what is Slytherin?'

'Right, muggles.' The portrait rolled his eyes,again. It seemed like he did it often. 'I was referring to the Dark Lord,' the portrait paused, glancing at Harry but not finding any kind of recognition, 'your host? Lord Voldemort?' That got a reaction out of Harry, so he continued, 'he's a descendant of Slytherin, one of the greatest wizards in history, one of the founders of Hogwarts — the British school of magic — and one of the few famous Parselmouths in the entire wizarding world.'

Half-blood, Harry understood, it meant one of his parents was a wizard while the other was a muggle, or a 'mudblood' as the portrait had put it, but Harry couldn't for the life of him guess what a Parselmouth was, so he asked the portrait.

'They're wizards, or witches, who speak Parseltongue. There are very few of them left, you see, it's a hereditary ability and it's almost extinct now. The last known ones were the Gaunts, descendants of Slytherin, but the only one left now is him. This is how he can speak to his snake too — Nagini — and how he can understand what she says.'

'Voldemort is the only one in Britain who can speak Parseltongue?'

'Didn't you hear what I said?' The portrait said in an annoyed voice. 'Maybe there are others, well-hidden wizards who are Parselmouths too, but that's unlikely.'

Harry frowned. 'Wait are you saying that only wizards are able to use Parseltongue? But then why can I—' He cut himself off abruptly, eyes open wide.

Suddenly, he was very aware of his current situation, and he realized he couldn't go and babble about that with the portrait. What if it said everything back to Voldemort? Would it be a good or a bad thing if he knew about it? No, Harry thought, he shouldn't say anything about it, keep it hidden, always keep it hidden.

However, the portrait was more astute than he'd expected.

'What were you about to say? Go on, please. I don't answer to him, it'll stay between you and me, I promise,' the portrait cajoled, which felt all kinds of creepy, and much less reassuring than he probably hoped.

'Nothing!' Harry said quickly. 'Never-mind all that, I'll be going now, thanks for the talk!'

Harry all but ran down the corridor.

He heard the portrait shout after him but he didn't stop or slow down. His fingernails digging into his palms painfully, he remembered that day he had been to the zoo with the Dursleys. He had heard the boa constrictor behind the glass wall and he had talked to it, softly, empathizing with its condition, and then Dudley had come, called his parents and said Harry was acting like a freak, hissing at the snake like he was actually speaking to it.

That's when Harry had fully realized something was very wrong. The Dursleys hated everything magic, anything out of the ordinary, so when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had looked down upon him with nothing but distrust in their eyes, he had quickly lied. He'd just been hissing at it like you'd meow at a kitten to get its attention, you see? There had been nothing more than that, nothing unnatural, it was only a coincidence if the snake had reacted to the sound.

At the end of the day, he had left the zoo with a very suspicious Dursley family, but it had faded eventually. Nothing else had ever happened, so they forgot, never brought up the incident again.

But Harry had never forgotten.

Understanding snakes, it was unnatural, freaky, strange, he needed to keep it hidden from everyone. But now, learning that Voldemort shared this ability and that very few people could do it too, that it was something only witches and wizards could do... What did it mean? Was he an anomaly? Surely he would have realized it by now if he was a wizard, he wouldn't have needed someone to come and tell him 'you're a wizard, Harry' to notice it, right?

After having walked mindlessly for a while, Harry had somehow ended up in a vast hall with marble flooring and right in front of him, there was a huge wooden door. He hadn't seen anyone on the way, and if some portraits seemed to follow him with their eyes, they hadn't stopped him or talked to him. Was he the only one there? Harry quickly glanced around but saw nobody.

Voldemort's warning echoed in his mind.Don't disrespect his hospitality. Harry would guess that trying to run away would qualify as disrespecting his hospitality, but at the same time, he needed to get out at some point, preferably sooner than later. Maybe he should just check if the door really opened to the outside and keep it in mind for later. It wouldn't actually count as an escape attempt if he only peered briefly outside but didn't try to leave, right?

Right.

Slowly, Harry's hand reached for the doorknob, but before he could touch the polished metal, cold, pale, bony fingers wrapped around his wrists like shackles.

Harry startled at the touch.

Dread shooting up his back, he closed his eyes tightly and internally braced himself.

Here it was at last: the End. Death would come in the shape of Lord Voldemort and put a stop to his short, miserable life. Him, Harry Potter, who had not even quite yet come into adulthood, killed by a wizard man and his wizard wood stick.

'Potter! What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?'

Harry's bright green eyes widened at the unfamiliar voice, and he turned his head abruptly to meet an equally unfamiliar face, with greasy black hair, a hooked nose and a sallow complexion. Harry squinted behind his glasses and said, in a way that most certainly showcased all of his observation skills, 'you're not Lord Voldemort.'

'Of course I'm not Lo—' The unknown man paused. For a second, his face was distorted in an expression Harry wasn't sure how to interpret, before he hissed between gritted teeth, 'you're Harry Potter.'

Looked like they were playing a game of stating the obvious.

'I'm Harry Potter,' Harry repeated, 'and who are you? And please let go of my arm, I'm not going anywhere, I promise.' He would have rolled his eyes if the man didn't exude such an aura of authority, like a very strict teacher you wouldn't want to disappoint, or something. Or maybe it was just the way he had called him 'Potter' that made him think that.

'I do not answer to you, Potter,' spat the stranger in what could be considered an undignified, childish fashion.

Still, he let go of Harry, who then rubbed at the skin around his wrist absentmindedly. For some reason, he didn't feel as scared of the man as he thought he should be, so he figured he might as well try his luck.

'Am I not supposed to go through that door,sir?' Harry asked, slowly.

If he said yes, then it would mean Harry was right in thinking the door led outside. If he said no... Harry didn't know what it would mean yet, he would think about it when — or if — it turned out to be the answer.

'If you wish to be turned into a piece of charred flesh then please feel free to try and open the door,' the man said with a sneer, and Harry physically recoiled, glancing back warily at the door as if it had bitten him.

'It—' Harry took another step back. 'It would really do that?'

Magic could clean up vomit, make clothes feel as though they were new, make people vanish and appear in different places at will, make paintings talk and let people converse with snakes. And to that list, apparently, he could now add 'making objects burn people possibly to death'. Fantastic, it was no wonder Aunt Petunia wanted nothing to do with magic. Next thing he would learn, magic could also instantly end people's lives, or torture them, or mind-control them.

'Yes, it can,' the man said, 'and it would have immediately notified the Dark Lord of your escape attempt as well.'

Then, he glanced around quickly and discreetly before whipping out his wood stick and waving it as if he knew what he was doing, which Harry supposed he did. The man was a wizard after all.

Harry didn't see anything happen and wondered if the man had failed his spell, or whatever it was he had been trying to do. He couldn't see any expression like disappointment or frustration on the man's face and concluded that it was unlikely. Or maybe the man hid it well.

'Now, Potter, you might want to know why exactly it was a bad idea to try to esc—'

'I wasn't trying to escape,' Harry interrupted him quickly. It felt important to mention that, he didn't want any trouble. 'I just wanted to see where the door would open to, nothing more.'

'Do — not — interrupt — me — Potter,' the man hissed, his face dangerously close to Harry. 'You are in a very delicate situation and you should be grateful I am helping you and not letting you get yourself killed by your own stupidity.'

That was rude. Harry knew he'd been the first to be not entirely polite when he interrupt him, but was it really enough reason to call him stupid?

'As I was saying, escaping would only lead to your suffering, and possible death. The Dark Lord invited you in and you accepted, which triggered a magical contract of sorts. If you disrespect his hospitality, by which I mean any attempt to leave the manor without his approval, or trying to harm the Dark Lord knowingly, you will suffer the consequences.'

His tone promised the consequences in question would be quite unpleasant.

'Are you saying that unless he decides to spare me, I'm going to die? No possibility to escape or to fight back?'

That was unfair. So very unfair.

'Fortunately for you, Potter, this contract is not entirely one-sided. As long as it is active, the Dark Lord may not harm you either.'

That was only a small relief.

'Why are you doing this?' Harry asked, curious. 'Aren't you on his side? Why would you want to help me? You already saved me by stopping me from opening the door, and I am very grateful for it. But why did you help me and then tell me about this contract? What do you gain from this?'

'As the potion master, I would be appalled if my potions were wasted in curing you because you were foolish enough to try to leave the manor and got yourself in a critical condition because of it.'

'Oh.' Harry tried not to look disappointed. What else could it have been? The man was sent here by the Potters to help him? It would be ridiculous. 'Well, still, thank you, sir.'

'Severus Snape.'

Harry blinked, confused, before he finally understood that the man was introducing himself.

'Oh, er, it was nice to meet you Mr Snape.' Then he said, giving him his best, brightest smile, 'and thank you again for saving me.'

Severus Snape waved his wood stick silently once again, and this time again, Harry didn't notice anything different. Then he said, unpleasantly 'if you are quite done now, Potter, I have better things to do than to babysit you.'

Then he disappeared in a swirl of black robes before Harry even had the time to say good bye.

* * *

Harry threw one last look back at the door that could have hurt him before he turned on his heels and walked away.

The first escape route he'd found was not safe. And if Mr Snape hadn't been lying, no escape routes were safe. Harry didn't want to think about how he was trapped like a rat in this manor, that whatever he would do, he'd eventually end up at Voldemort's mercy, and if Voldemort wanted Nagini to eat Harry, then Harry would die.

It wasn't an optimistic thought.

To change his mind, Harry spent most of his morning exploring the manor. It was huge, full of long corridors and closed doors and rooms that weren't empty but that contained nothing of interest to him. Fortunately, he saw neither Nagini nor Voldemort during that time. He supposed they must have left somewhere, or were in a place he hadn't visited, or they had simply missed one another by chance.

Eventually, he found a smaller door, on the first floor. It didn't look all that different, from the other doors Harry had found. He turned the doorknob and pushed. The door opened on a dark, narrow corridor going down, with stairs that twisted in an L shape after a few meters. It was dimly lit, and there was a nasty smell that Harry couldn't quite place.

Quietly, Harry walked down, step by step, careful to keep an ear out in case he heard anything. But it was silent, there was no sound at all. In the darkness, he couldn't see well past his fingertips if he stretched his arms in front of him, and it almost felt like something, anything could jump out of the shadowy places and attack him at any time.

As he kept going, Harry ended up in an elongated room with cold stone floor and a metallic smell in the air. He was able to discern what looked like cells lining up along the wall, far away, with dark, humanoid shapes inside them.

Harry stepped forward, carefully, silently, and then, as if on cue, several voices broke the silence all at once, reaching Harry by waves of murmurs, broken and incomprehensible.

'The savior — come to save us all — please, you must —the Boy-Who-Lived—'

He stopped in his tracks. Savior? Boy-Who-Lived? Save them? What on earth did that mean? He wasn't exactly opposed to the idea of the helping but it would have been easier if they were more clear on what he should be doing to help them.

'Help us please — warn the Order — begging you — a miracle—'

Context might have helped Harry understand what the Order was or what was expected of him, but it was difficult to understand given the multiple disembodied voices that reached him. And they didn't stop to let him actually think about it.

'Please — Dumbledore — You-Know-Who — please — save us.'

Harry took a few steps back, feeling slightly dizzy.

There were no people, no faces, no names. It was a dark mass inhabiting the cells, that was now shouting at him with the strength of desperation, screaming its lungs out with hoarse voices and Harry didn't know what to do. But as Harry hesitated, the mass only swelled up and the hope turned into something else, louder, angrier.

'Is he — must be a — traitor — changed sides—'

'Hey, I'm not a traitor!' Harry protested, speaking at last. How could he be one? He'd only found out about the Wizarding World less than twenty-four hours ago, he had never told anyone he was their ally only to back-stab them instead. But what he said was lost in the new wave of angry whispers.

'Liar — allied with the Dark — You-Know-Who's new pet—'

Liar? Pet? Now they were just trying to get a rise out of him, weren't they? Harry briefly remembered the way Voldemort had petted his hair and tried to focus his attention on something else.

'Should never trust — always knew there was something wrong— why aren't you helping us?'

Harry's voice was small compared to theirs, but still said, before being drowned out by them. 'Look, I want to help. If I knew what to do, I would—'

'Can't believe I ever trusted — filthy little — if he did he deserves to — needs to — pay for the crimes—'

'I don't know what you're talking about but I'll help you! I promise! If I can, I'll try to—' he shouted desperately, but their voices were still louder, so much louder than his, and he cut himself off. It was pointless wasn't it? Like speaking to an ocean, they were throwing words at him but he would get no responses if he talked back to them.

'You should help us instead of — stop standing around like —just a worthless piece of—'

Harry covered his ears and took another step back, his nails digging into the skin of his temples. It only helped muffled the sounds, but they were louder now, he couldn't block them out completely.

It wasn't really his fault, was it?

He couldn't even find a way out to save himself, how could he help them? If he could, he would try, but he couldn't. He wasn't a wizard, he wasn't anyone's savior, he was a captive and Nagini would eat him as soon as he outlived his use. He was powerless, didn't they understand? Couldn't they understand? Why must they call him a savior, he hadn't asked for anything!

As he ran back upstairs, three steps at a time, Harry thought that he'd rather face Nagini than all these voices over there at the moment, and flung the door open, which made it bounce back slightly on its hinges. The Harry froze, eyes wide open, and immediately turned back.

Harry was about to scramble back downstairs when a cold hand and fingers wrapped around his neck and a cold, hissing voice that was unmistakably Voldemort's said, 'I've been searching for you,Harry. It is time.'

* * *

Charles Potter, better known in the Wizarding World as the Boy-Who-Lived, watched almost fearfully as yet another porcelain dish flew past him and crashed into the wall, accompanied by a long string of curses.

If these were far from appropriate to say near a child, neither Charles nor his father cared. Charles had turned seventeen recently, and he'd heard worse around other teenagers at Hogwarts, after all. Still, he was somewhat wary, even though he knew his father would never raise his hand on him. James Potter had always seemed like a perfect father to him, kind and understanding, spoiling him rotten, only setting a few limits which Charles had learnt to respect early on. And sometimes, Charles felt like he was more like a fun older brother than like a father figure.

From memory, Charles had never seen his father ever look so angry, or be so mean with the dishes. So far, glasses, plates, and even silverware had been thrown at the poor wall which was beginning to look rather battered and bruised.

When Charles saw his father get a hold of Grandmother's favorite teapot, an irreplaceable object that no magic could ever mend if it was broken, he knew he had to do something.

'Dad, please put it down!'

His father froze into place.

Slowly, James Potter, one, if not the most esteemed auror in Britain, turned his head to see Charles, standing still in the hallway, wearing an expression the man had never thought he would ever seen on his son's face while he was looking at him. And, as if he had only just realized what a show he had given to his son, he carefully and slowly placed the expensive teapot down on the kitchen table with an embarrassed look.

'Sorry about that.'

James moved to hug Charles, who let out a breath of relief. Once the embrace had lasted a little too long to be comfortable, Charles extracted himself from it and said, 'I don't get it.'

'What?'

'I said: I don't get it. Harry has been dead for years, there's no way Voldemort could have kidnapped him, right dad?'

His father tensed, and looked away.

Charles frowned. 'Dad?'

James Potter gave a long sigh before he finally said, 'sit down, I'll explain everything to you.'

Charles took a few steps back. Suddenly, he didn't recognize his father. 'What? No, dad, there's nothing to explain. Harry is dead, he has always been,you told me he was dead.' His voice went up towards the end. 'Did...'Did you lie to me?He wanted to ask, but couldn't bring himself to say the words.

James looked like he had no idea how to start explaining, and he still avoided Charles' eyes.

'After your mother's death, things were hard. I... I had to take care of you and Harry and with the Deatheaters around and Voldemort who could come back at any moment, we were all in danger. Harry had already been diagnosed as a Squib at that point so... so we thought it would be better if he lived away from us, in the muggle world, safe from Dark Lords and everything.'

Charles jumped on his feet and started pacing around, many questions on his lips. A feeling that must have been protectiveness swelled up in his chest. The brother, who he thought had died when they were babies, was alive and in danger and he'd be damned if he couldn't do anything to help him.

'If he was supposed to be safe, why was he targeted then? Weren't there any wards to protect him? How far was he from Britain when he was abducted by Voldemort? America? Australia? New Zealand?'

'He was with your muggle aunt.' James Potter cleared his throat uncomfortably before he added, 'in Surrey.'

'Wait,' Charles stopped, wide-eyed and horrified. 'isn't she the one you refuse to talk to because she hates everything magic? You left Harry with her, in England?'

'It was better this way! She knew he didn't have magic, that he was like her, and she was the only relative he'd be safe with. Charles, you weren't there. If you had, you'd know—' He was interrupted by Charles.

'And why didn't you tell me the truth? I could have taken it. Better to know my brother is alive and away for his own good than to think he died.'

'The less people knew about Harry still being alive, the better.' James Potter said firmly. He looked exhausted. 'I'm sorry I had to lie, but it was for the best, and you need to understand that.'

Charles closed his eyes and sighed. He couldn't remember the last time they'd had such an argument and guilt crept in his stomach. He should cut his father some slack, shouldn't he? Be a better son.

'I... It will take me a little while to get used to it. I'll get around eventually. Probably. But,' Charles was pointedly not looking at his father, 'is there anything we can do for Harry now? He's my brother, I can't...we can't let Voldemort kill him. Please, dad, tell me you have a plan.'

'We can't help him.'

Not used to being told 'No' by his father, Charles's reaction was immediate, 'why? Surely we can find a way to do something for him? He's my brother, and he's innocent, he's—'

'We can't.' James's voice was so harsh Charles almost flinched. 'I'm sorry, and I wish we could do something, but Dumbledore... he... we can't...' He struggled to find his words, which, again, was a first for Charles who was used to a self-assured, sometimes too self-assured, father. 'We're so close now. Only the snake is left, it's the last You-Know-What, and once it's dead, everything will be over, Voldemort will be defeated, and we'll be able to live in peace. Even if that means... even if we can't...'

Charles wanted to protest one last time, but as he opened his mouth, he noticed his father's eyes were wet with tears. The guilt only grew bigger.

'I'm... sorry for pushing,' he mumbled and turned away. 'I... I'll be in my room now. I need some time alone.' And then he all but ran away.

The door of his room made a loud noise as it closed, and Charles let himself lean against it then slide to the floor and buried his head in his arms.

Harry was alive.

Harry was alive, and his father had lied to him, and was refusing to go and save him.

Harry was alive but in danger and Charles needed to do something about it.


End file.
